Chapter Three: A Wedding
Beltane, 444 H.E.
The only good thing
about a post-wedding celebration, Raoul firmly believed, was that no expense
was spared in supplying alcohol. Wine,
mead, ale, brandy--variation upon variation at his disposal.
And wedding celebrations
were those blissful occasions when people relaxed more, in their joy, and let
the constraints of etiquette lapse. At
Geoffrey of Meron’s nuptials, just two months prior, Alanna and George had
challenged each other to a drinking contest.
Of course, the diminutive Lioness had been overly optimistic; George
ended up carrying his sauced wife home that night.
However, the Prime
Minister’s wedding was not so rollicking an affair. While Raoul was thoroughly enjoying his ale,
he noticed that few others had made this same decision.
Beltane, he thought with a grimace. To promote a splendid life full of
children and prosperity and the things every Tortallan is supposed to wish for
all their lives. He shook his head
and took a long drink. It was bad enough
to be present--did he have to be thinking?
He stopped listening to the
chatter around him. Even his closest
friends’ voices irritated him. He wanted
to get away. He wanted to go home.
“So when will you be
getting married, Raoul?”
It was Douglass of Veldine
who spoke; he was Raoul’s former squire and a fellow bachelor.
“Oh, he’s never getting
married,” Gary said with a smile, approaching with Cythera just in time to hear
the question. They had been roaming from
table to table throughout the Grand Hall, speaking to their guests.
“Never?” Alanna grinned,
raising her eyebrows. “That’s a word
that will always come back and bite you in the rump.”
“You say that now only
because you always said you’d never marry,” George murmured. Alanna’s face contorted into a mask of
mock-anger.
Raoul glared up at Cythera
and Gary before rising to his feet. “I
need a drink.”
But instead of heading to
one of the servants who meandered through the crowd with trays of ale, he
stomped toward the door that led to the service hallway. He leaned against the wall and closed his
eyes. The world was spinning, and he
wasn’t sure if it was anger, misery, or alcohol that caused it to do so.
A cool hand touched his
cheek. When he opened his eyes he saw
Cythera standing before him.
“How much have you had to
drink?” she asked. Her voice was
gentle. Sad. Pitying.
Raoul flinched away from the
touch. “Go back to your party.”
“You told Gary you were fine
with this,” she said. Her voice held no
trace of accusation, but a matter-of-fact quality that he had always associated
with her husband.
“I say a lot of things I
don’t really mean,” Raoul retorted his voice growing louder. “What was I supposed to do? Throw myself prostrate before you and beg you
not to do it? Convince you to deny any
mutual affection between the two of you because I wasn’t happy?”
His words were met with
silence.
“Would you have changed
anything if I had said something?” he continued coldly. “No.
You would have told me that it was the bed that I made when I ended
things, and now had come the time for me to sleep in it.”
Cythera’s understanding
expression was replaced with one that seemed a cross between anger and
discomfort. “How many chances did we
give you?” she asked, her voice growing colder.
“How many times did Gary ask you if he was doing the right thing?”
“Plenty of times--but I
could tell that he was falling in love with you, and I wasn’t going to stand in
the way.”
“Of course you weren’t!”
Cythera hissed, “because that would mean putting your heart on the line. You couldn’t marry me when you wanted to
because you were afraid, and for the same reason, you couldn’t ask him not to!”
Raoul angrily pushed her
aside, moving down the hall. Before he
went too many steps, he spun on his heel only to stagger against the wall. “I didn’t ask to marry you because I didn’t
know where I stood with Gary,” he slurred, reaching for the flask of whiskey he
had carried with him all day. After a
generous sip, he continued. “I didn’t
stop him from marrying you because I
didn’t think it mattered, if that was what he wanted. It doesn’t mean that I cared about him or you
any less than before. It means I
didn’t know what I wanted, so I left you both to decide.” He leaned on the wall again, drained from
yelling. “I didn’t know that the only two people I ever loved would end
up married.”
“You let him end things
between the two of you, even though you still cared for him?” Cythera asked
softly.
Raoul looked up at her
sharply. “Gary told you everything?” he
asked, his voice low.
She nodded. “We were honest from the beginning. He told me that he didn’t know what was going
on between the two of you--what had been going on for years, You were always so
aloof about it.”
“Yes,” Raoul said, closing
his eyes again. He had been trying to
protect himself, after the awkward break with Cythera. “Leaving you was the hardest thing I ever
did--until that night he talked about marriage. Letting him go was awful.”
“Then why didn’t you hold on
to him?” she asked, the slightest remnants of anger in her voice. She closed the gap between them, taking his
large hand in both of hers. “If you
loved him, you should have kept him.”
He grimaced. “I know.”
He peered through partially opened eyes, examining her beautiful,
troubled face. “Why should it matter
now, though? You can’t look sad and tell
me that I should’ve kept your husband.
Not on your wedding day.”
Cythera sighed. “You’re right. But I never wanted my husband, my future, to
settle so definitely on someone else’s unhappiness.”
He pulled her comfortably
into his arms, still marveling over the way her tall frame fit so nicely
against his own. He could feel her
nervous breath against his neck. “I’m
not unhappy,” he murmured. “Just
lonely.” He lowered his mouth to hers,
realizing for the first time exactly how long it had been since they had
parted.
She returned the kiss,
clutching his tunic; within moments she voiced a protest and pushed him away,
her hands against his chest. “I’m
married,” she murmured. “And you’re drunk.”
He knocked back the
remaining contents of his flask with one large gulp. “You’re married,” he said with a scowl. “And I’m a confirmed bachelor with nothing
left, since you’ve taken Gary with you.”
He pushed himself past her and moved to return to the ballroom.
“’Taken Gary with you?’” she
repeated angrily. “Have you not listened
to one word I’ve said?”
He turned quickly, stumbling
as he did so. He opened his mouth, but
felt a firm hand clap over it.
“Come along, Goldenlake.” A commanding voice swam into Raoul’s head
while strong fingers clamped on his arm.
“Pardon us, Lady Cythera.” He did
not loosen his grip as he dragged Raoul down the corridor, though he did
uncover his mouth.
“What the hell was that
for?” Raoul growled as he was shoved through the narrow entry hall.
“You’re making a complete
fool of yourself.”
Raoul twisted and tried to
break free, but it was to no avail.
“You may be bigger and
stronger, but you’re also a sloppy drunk.”
Raoul was finally able to
place that frigid, severe voice. “Wyldon
of Cavall,” he slurred, yanking his arm free and facing the shorter man. “Since when are Conservatives invited to
parties like this?”
Wyldon grabbed him by the
collar and forced him against the stone wall.
Raoul’s knees buckled beneath him, and he had no time to recover before
he slumped to the ground.
“That’s Sir Wyldon,” he replied coldly.
He crouched down to look Raoul in the eye. “And perhaps Conservatives are invited to
parties like this because we understand decorum and respect, and we don’t go
propositioning brides in back halls.”
His glare was stern. “Or grooms.”
Raoul groaned. How much did the priggish bastard overhear
before his assault?
“Oh, don’t feel ashamed
now,” Wyldon replied coldly. He left the
entryway and stepped outside. When he
came back, he held a wooden ladle full of water, presumably taken from the
kitchen well. “Drink up,” he said,
crouching before Raoul and holding up the ladle.
“Why are you doing
this?” Raoul muttered between sips.
Wyldon leaned back on his
heels, examining him with serious eyes.
“Because you’re better than this, Goldenlake. You used to be the best of the lot—the
strongest, the sturdiest. And now…
you’re a pathetic drunk.” He didn’t soften
his tone or expression.
Raoul digested the words
slowly, letting them sink in and cut through the murky slowness of his
thoughts. He could hardly remember his
conversation with Cythera. Had he made
such a complete ass of himself?
“What do I do?” The words came out low, barely above a
whisper.
Wyldon’s brown eyes met his
with unfamiliar kindness. “Give me the
flask,” he answered.